


French Girls

by zeldasayre



Category: Original Work
Genre: Artists, Canon Lesbian Relationship, College, F/F, Lesbian Character, f/f - Freeform, painter/muse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-15 00:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3431870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldasayre/pseuds/zeldasayre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The girls of Jane’s paintings were always at least two of three things, 1. artists– writers, photographers, and musicians not excluded– 2. smokers– we always referred to her exes as being ‘in the ashtray’– and 3. French. That was always bizarre to me. Why French girls?"</p><p>Rosemary is used to being admired, adored, the subject of someone's infatuation. She's used to being the agitator of unrequited love. But the tables are turned when she meets someone whose standards she's incapable of meeting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	French Girls

**Author's Note:**

> work in progress.

She was pretty. I was having a hard time with it because she was so pretty.

I never painted pretty people. I always preferred ugly models.

Her ears were too small, too close to her head. Her nose was too round, smooth, lovely. Her cheeks were too round and pink and clear, her eyes too round and shallow and heavenly blue, and her mouth, worst of all, was too round, too pink, too soft, too kissed.

It was no good. She was too pretty, the painting would be hideous.

I gave her a tight, awkward smile when she got up to leave.

“Thank you,” I said, “I really appreciate your help.”

Her perfect pink cheeks turned red; splotchy, ugly red, and I thought _AH_. There’s a face I’d paint.

But then the blush evened out, and her gaze dipped and her long eyelashes with it, and she was artless again, stupidly charming and dully beautiful.

“It was no problem,” she said, “I hope I was able to help.”

 _You weren't_ , I thought, “You did beautifully,” I said, not lying, giving her a grin.

"You're an amazing artist,” she said.

“Nah,” I said, “no one’s an amazing artist anymore. Definitely not me. But thanks.”

She didn’t seem to know what to say then, so she stared at me for a moment before turning abruptly and hurrying from the room. I turned back towards my easel and took up the canvas and my backpack. I threw the painting away with a sigh as I left the room, turning off the lights and closing the door behind me. Let the janitor do with that trash what he would.

*

“Did she have you pose nude?” Annie asked, smirking over the rim of her cup.

“Come on,” I said, flushing, rolling my eyes, “No. Why would I agree to that?”

“Oh," Léa said, sliding out of her armchair and onto the ottoman, arching her back and her brow, “she can be very persuasive.”

Annie giggled madly. I gathered their dishes and carried them toward the kitchen.

I’d assumed they would tease me for this. Jane was one of those people known for things, and the things she was known for were 1. the seriousness with which she took her art and 2. her tendency to date her models. But even if I’d offered to pose for her with that end in mind, I knew I never would have succeeded. The girls of Jane’s paintings were always at least two of three things, 1. artists– writers, photographers, and musicians not excluded– 2. smokers– we always referred to her exes as being ‘in the ashtray’– and 3. French. That was always bizarre to me. Why French girls?

And where did she find all these French girls?

I set mugs before Annie and Léa and dropped marshmallows into each of them.

“Rosémie,” Léa cooed, as she always did, what she always called me when I did something that particularly pleased her, “Thank you. You are an angel. You are divine.”

Léa was one of Jane’s paintings. They’d been together for four months freshman year. The canvas with her face on it hung in the art room alongside all of Jane’s other paintings. Professor Cowley was in love with her. I felt in love with Léa, sometimes, when I looked at that painting. But then I’d tell her, and she’d kiss me, and I’d scrunch up my nose and she’d laugh and say, “You’re not in love with me, pauvre fille, you’re in love with Jane.”

“Jane’s paintbrush,” I’d say, “maybe Jane’s paintbrush.”

“We all think we’re in love with the artist,” Léa’d sigh, “but in the end we only love Jane.”

“Thank you, Rose,” Annie said with a smile. I smiled back at her and sunk into the couch, blowing softly and drinking slowly so I wouldn’t burn my tongue.

*

I watched her, how her hands pushed and pulled at the clay, how they worked through it softly and insistently. With every success she had, every perfect shaping or deliberate indentation, I felt my stomach coil more and more, ’til I was a full-blown spring, as I imagined my skin as the clay, and she still the sculptor, talented as ever.

She looked up at me and let loose a little smirk, as confident in her effect on me as she was in her skills as an artist.

“Say my name,” she said.

“Mayla,” I immediately obeyed.

“I like that,” she said, her accent as thick as ever, “I like when you say my name. It makes sense in your accent. It does not in mine. I was meant to be called, never to call myself.”

She grinned at me and darted her tongue into the gap between her front teeth before looking down again. When she next looked up, I smirked at her first, almost sneered, with unabashed lust, and she blushed. Now I grinned. Victory.

“Are we going out tonight?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I glanced out the window, “Is anything going on tonight?”

“Léa told me about a party,” she said.

I rolled my eyes, “Léa’s only friends with straights now.” I smirked, “No pun intended.”

“You are stupid,” Mayla said, “Just because she dumped you she does not have sociability.” She dropped a couple syllables of that last word.

“Social skills,” I said.

“Mm,” she agreed. I sighed. This was the trouble with dating French girls. They stuck together. English-as-second language students always stuck together.

“Fine,” I said, “but if I have to go outside to smoke, I’m leaving.”

“Bête,” she said, “Tortured artist. You are sterotype.”

“Stereotype.”

“Mm. Ugly word. Ugly language.”

“It is,” I agreed, glancing out the window again as she turned her attention back to the clay.

*

“I don’t want to be here,” I said.

“Yea,” Annie said, “we know.”

Léa handed me a blue Solo cup.

“Innovative,” I said, and then, “I don’t want this.”

“You don’t want to be here,” she said, “You don’t want a drink. What do you want, Rosemary?”

“Hot chocolate would be nice,” I said, “Being at home would be nice.”

“What’s the fun of nice?” she asked, grinning.

I gave her a pout.

She looked over my shoulder and broke into a broader grin. “Here’s something you'll like,” she said. “Mayla!” she called.

I turned just as Mayla met Léa’s eyes and smiled. She was the type to catch your eye. She was the type your gaze returned to over and over even as you pretended to be looking at everyone equally. It wasn’t even her above-the-ear short violet hair, or the gap between her teeth, or her minuscule height. It was something else.

But I wasn't looking at her.

“What did you see in her?” Annie asked Léa as we lay under the trees, hoping against all evidence to the contrary that we wouldn’t be struck by wind-liberated acorns. “What does everybody see in her? How does she get all these girls?”

“Thinking of swinging the other way, Anne?” Léa asked.

“What?”

“Trying to understand Jane’s methods of seduction so you can put them to use?”

“Oh,” Annie laughed, “Of course. Yes.”

“I could show you a few tricks myself,” Léa purred, rising up on her haunches toward Annie.

What was it? I asked myself. Jane was not beautiful, not at first sight. Not bad-looking, not even plain, but certainly not beautiful, probably not even pretty.

She could be charming, sure, but she wasn’t alarmingly so, and whatever charisma she had was often overshadowed by the somewhat vague but undeniably present sense of superiority which she inhabited. She was charming for the right people.

But it wasn't that. There are plenty of charming people in the world. But there’s only one Jane.

“I don’t know,” Léa was saying when I started paying attention again, “…I don’t know.”

“Is it the art?” Annie asked, “Is it a genuine appreciation for her talent? She is a great painter.”

“It’s not that,” Léa said.

“A dream of being painted, then?” Annie pushed on, “Being her lover does pretty much guarantee a place on Cowley’s wall.”

“I’m sure that’s a contributing factor,” Léa said, “but no. It's just Jane, you know? It’s Jane.”

“I don’t know,” Annie disagreed, “I don’t understand at all.”

Jane. There she was. As Mayla moved forward to exchange air-kisses with Léa, she took a long drag on her cigarette, her eyes trailed on the floor, blowing directly at the wood panelling like she hoped it’d do some damage.

She looked up, her eyes meeting my stare, and I looked quickly away.

“Hey,” Annie tugged on my sleeve, “there’s Arthur.” She turned to Léa, “See you later, Léa,” and I followed her as she walked away.

Arthur wrapped a spindly arm around my waist when we reached him and his roommate, Ezekiel, Annie’s boyfriend.

“Rosemary,” Arthur said with a smile, as he always did, with a tone like melting chocolate, dripping adoration and desire. I had that effect on guys. I was used to it.

“You’re blonde,” my mother once said to me, “there will always be someone in love with you, as long as you live.”

I pushed my hair behind my ear but it almost immediately swept over my face again. That was always easier when my hair was longer. Chin-length hair never was good for ear-tucking.

“Hi, Arthur,” I said. I smiled at him, “Started your essay yet?”

He laughed, “Oh, no,” he said, “Rosemary, please. This is a party. Let’s talking about anything else.”

Arthur loved saying my name.

“He never calls you Rose,” Annie said from her bed.

“No,” I agreed, reaching over the side of my own bed to pick up a dropped pen.

“Why does he do that?” she asked, “Always call you by your full name?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Are you guys dating?” Mags, Annie’s friend, asked from where she sat on the floor.

“I don’t know,” I said again.

“You’re together a lot,” she said, “and you go places together. You go out. Even if it’s with other people.”

“Yea,” I agreed.

“So you’re dating,” she said.

“Ok,” I said.

Annie smirked and shook her head.

“Ok,” I said, “What should we talk about?”

*

She pinned my arms down and grinned at me.

“You’re trying to kill me,” I said.

“Oh," she said, “I’ll only make you a little dead.”

“Mayla!” Léa’s voice called out, “Allez! Let’s go!”

“You do not want to come?” Mayla asked, “You are for certain?”

“I’m sure,” I said, “you filles have fun.”

She grinned and dashed out. “Je viens! Détendez-vous!” Her voice receded down the hallway.

I lay back and stared at the ceiling and thought about the party. It’d been uneventful overall, as most college parties are. But I had noticed something.

I’d caught that boringly beautiful girl, Rosemary, I think her name was, staring at me. At least five times. The first time I thought, oh, she must be wondering about her painting, and I felt kind of guilty for throwing it away. The second time I thought why doesn’t she just come over here and ask about it?

But the third time her gaze was on me while a guy’s was on her, and his arms were around her waist and face was near hers, but her eyes were on me ’til I caught her.

And then I realized it, and I almost laughed out loud.

I knew plenty of lesbians who were completely obsessed with curious straight girls. They were more than willing to be someone’s experiment. They proudly wore the label "that one time in college".

I was never one of those lesbians.

GUGs were annoying. They were all take and no give, all tease and no output, all desire and no humor.

So I could see what’d happened here. She’d seen me around on campus, making out with Mayla or someone else. Just minutes before, she’d been arguing with her boyfriend. He never listened to her, he didn’t care about her, he never wanted to do what she wanted to do, he cared more about his friends than their relationship. And then she saw me, with tongue between Mayla’s gapped teeth, and she’d seen Mayla jump a little, and her heart had pounded slightly faster in her chest, and she’d thought what was that? And why do I want to feel it again? And then she’d pretended to pretend that she didn’t care about that little feeling, that thoughts of me weren’t keeping her up at night. And then she’d yelled to herself I can’t take it anymore! And I knew the rest.

“Jane?” a voice said. I glanced up and smiled politely.

“Tarzan?” I answered.

She blushed, smiled. “Um,” she said, “You’re a painter, right? I heard you needed a model.”

Where did she hear that? I wondered, but in the glare of the sunlight I thought I saw something unique about her, I’d mistaken her for interesting-looking, so I said, “Oh, yea. Both are true.”

But whatever sexual identity crisis she thought she was suffering through, I wasn’t interested. I knew how that ended. I’d held enough crying girls in my arms to know it was always the questioning one who ended up answering no.

And besides. She was so aesthetically dull.

Still, though. It was nice. It’s always nice to feel someone’s gaze on you. That’s being a painter– I’m so used to being the one doing the gazing.

*

“Léa, you harlot.”

She let out a little laugh, gave up her tip-toeing, and walked all the way into the living room, where I was facing away from her in an armchair with tea and textbook.

I glanced at her and rose an eyebrow. She wiggled hers back at me.

“Tell me you didn’t sleep with her,” I said.

“I did nothing,” she said.

“You did something,” I said.

“I kissed her,” she said, “but we’re French. That’s nothing.”

I rolled my eyes, “Yea. I’m sure Jane would agree with that argument.”

“Jane understands,” she said, “Jane understands French girls.”

I rolled my eyes again and stood up, “Go brush your teeth. You’re disgusting. I’ll make you tea.”

“You’re a good girl, Rosémie.”

“I know, I know,” I said, “go on.”

She kissed my head and started up the stairs. I stood with a sigh and started toward the kettle.

Léa’d already had two cups of tea and I’d already finished all the homework that I couldn’t be bothered to do the night before by the time Annie came downstairs.

“Ew,” she said when she saw my textbook, “quit being being responsible. It makes my coffee sour.” She grinned at me then, and batted her eyes.

“A simple, ‘please, Rosemary, would you make me some coffee’ would suffice,” I said.

“Please,” she said, “Rosemary, you goddess, you queen, you gentle, selfless soul, would you make me some coffee?”

“She put the pot on when she heard you get up,” Léa said.

“Rosemary!” Annie cried, wrapping her arms around my neck, “It’s official! It’s decided! I’m in love with you!”

“Get in line,” Léa laughed, and the two of them delved almost immediately into a rehashing of the previous night’s events.

“What happened with Arthur, Rosie?” Annie asked.

I shrugged, “What do you mean?”

“Did you go home with him?”

“Am I making coffee for him right now, or you?”

“Did he come home with you?” she asked, glancing up the stairs as if he might appear at any moment.

“No,” I said, “that noise you hear is just rats.”

The week passed slowly, dully, painfully as the snow got progressively worse. Thursday morning Léa ignored her alarm, which I took to mean snow day. But when I eventually dragged myself out of bed and downstairs, she was putting on her coat.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Going out,” she said.

“I thought the whole point of snow days was staying in,” I said.

“Audrey is having a snow day spectacular,” she grinned, “all in good fun. Hot chocolate. Movies. People. You should come!”

“And by people,” I said, “you mean Mayla.”

“It’ll be fun!” she said.

“Where’s Annie?” I asked.

Annie burst out from the stairs, dressed and ready to go.

I sighed. “Fine,” I said, “let me get dressed.”

*

“You know that little girl, the one asked you to paint her? That very beautiful girl, too beautiful for you, snob?”

"Shhh,” I replied.

“You know who I mean," Mayla whispered.

We continued down the hall. I stopped at a silhouette-like painting to read the title. ‘Silhouette’. I rolled my eyes.

“I know who you mean,” I said under my breath, “although I wouldn’t call her little.”

“Non,” she said, “she is tall, but has little waist. She is so skinny.”

I made a grunting noise in agreement.

“Too skinny,” she giggled, covering her mouth with a hand. “She was at Audrey’s house," she said, “for the snow. When you would not come with me.”

“Oh, was she?” I asked, “That makes sense. She’s friends with Léa, isn’t she?” I rolled my eyes at myself and tried to swallow the bitterness in my mouth.

“Yes,” Mayla said, then hurriedly moved on, “You should have seen her, Jane! She is so skinny! She cannot hold liquor in such a small waist!”

Now I rose my eyebrows. “Rosemary was drunk?”

“Mais oui!” Mayla giggled delightedly. “She is so cute! She sings! She sings and sings and dances and dances until she faints!” She nearly keeled over in laughter at the memory. I couldn't help but smile at the image; the scene she’d created. An elderly couple near us hissed at us to keep it down, and I hurried her out of the room with both my palms on her back.

I dropped her off in front of her class before driving to the dinner just off-campus. As the waitress brought me sausage links and a milkshake on roller-skates, I stared at the blue of her dress and remembered a painting I had done in my senior year of high school, my final project for AP Art, inspired by my first and only encounter with a gigolo.

“Want some company, baby?” He was feminine and woke more makeup at once than I'd worn in all my life, but in the string bikini bottom he wore with his safety-pinned lace top, he was decidedly male.

I turned around to face him full-on and rose my eyebrows.

He laughed almost gaily, “Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart. I thought you were a fairy.”

“Well, I am," I said, standing straight, pushing my shoulders back, infused with that stubborn and proud insistence of queerness which all seventeen year-olds have, "just not that kind.”

“Well," he said, clearly amused with me, appeasing me with a smile, “I can't imagine my company being of any interest to you.”

But then of course an idea came to me as it will to seventeen year-olds and I asked, “Do you mind if I sit with you?” to which I somehow attached, “I’m an artist.”

And he laughed and said, “Oh, you’re an artist, are you” but nonetheless gestured to the sidewalk beside him, "be my guest.” And then played out the scene you know and can imagine in which I sat their in my seventeen-ness and asked him question after question about himself but ended up only talking about me. Or more specifically, my girl.

“Don’t be jealous, sweetie,” I remembered him telling me, "people like us can’t be jealous. She loves you even though you’re a girl, and that’s more than you can expect from most. You can't be jealous. You’ll only hurt yourself.”

I thanked the waitress and texted Mayla _I love you_.

*

“You want to be a chef?” Scott asked.

“I want to cook,” I said.

“What are you doing at a liberal arts school?” he asked with a laugh.

"Who goes to a liberal arts school for a job?” Arthur asked, smiling at me.

Scott laughed again. “That's fair,” he said.

I smiled back at Arthur and avoided meeting Scott’s eyes.

“Are your parents chefs?” Lily, Scott's girlfriend, asked as she turned around from the sink, her hands dripping.

“Her parents own a bookshop,” Arthur said with something like pride.

“A bookshop!” Lily cried, “How quaint!”

I paused a moment and then gave her a smile.

The kitchen of the boys’ dorm was stufffy, and the couch was stiff and unpleasant. I readjusted myself and flipped a page of the book in my hand.

“What are you reading?” Arthur asked.

“A short story,” I said, “‘The Girl the Prince Liked’.”

“Sounds sweet,” he said, smiling, “Who's it by?”

“Zelda Fitzgerald,” I said.

“My wife!” Scott said, grinning.

“Mhm,” I said.

“Is that for a class?” Lily asked.

“Mhm," I said.

"He was a romantic guy,” Arthur said.

I looked up at him and rose an eyebrow. “Who?” I asked, “Scott?”

“Sure,” he said, and then, beaming at me, “You’re my Daisy.”

Yea, I thought, running a hand through his hair, I guess I am.

“My favorite line in that book is the bit about Daisy and her husband being careless,” Lily said, “I love that. I’d love to be that careless.”

“You’d love to be that heartless, you mean,” Scott said.

“Oh,” she said, turning around to kiss him, “I already am.”

I took my hand out of Arthur’s hair and avoided his gaze and smile as I continued to read.

*

“Are you going home for spring break?”

I let out a sigh like the last note in Jeff Buckley’s ‘Hallelujah’. It just went on and on.

“Don’t say the word spring,” I said, “Don’t hurt me this way.”

Helena laughed.

“I don’t know," I said in answer to her question, “Probably not. Yea… probably not. How about you?”

“My roommate lives a few hours from here,” she said, “I’ll probably stay with her.” She laughed, “If you’d date people who weren’t French girls, you might be able to go home with them over breaks.”

“I’d love to go home with a French girl,” I said, “The Louvre misses me dearly.”

“Have you been to the Louvre?” she asked.

“No,” I said, “But it misses me anyway.”

“Like Carly Rae Jepsen,” she laughed.

“Exactly,” I said, like I had any idea what she was talking about.

“What about Mayla?”

“What about her?” I asked.

“Where’s she going over break? All the way home?”

I ran a hand through my hair, but there wasn’t much of it, and certainly not enough to push that of it which was in my face out of it.

I shrugged.

Helena rose an eyebrow. She looked down and for a moment we sat in silence. Then, “What’s going on with you guys?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, staring intently at my lap top.

“…Are you on a break or something?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “Maybe. No. I don’t know.”

“Does she know you’re on a break?”

“We’re not,” I said, closing my lap top abruptly, standing and heading over to my electric kettle. “We’re fine.”

“Right,” she said, “Ok.”

I glanced over at her. “Why do you ask?” I asked.

She shrugged. “I don’t know, man. I’m sorry. Forget I mentioned it.”

I turned my gaze back to the electric kettle.

“So what happened with the GUG you told me about?” she asked.

I ripped a sugar packet and turned around to face her, leaning against the desk. “GUG?”

“Yea, you know. The one who had you paint her picture. The one who gave you bedroom eyes at that lame kegger.” She wiggled her eyebrows and grinned.

“Oh,” I said, chuckling, “You mean Rosemary.”

“Yea,” she said. “Has she done anything else?”

I shrugged. I dropped my gaze to the floor and thought about the way that girl had looked at me at the party.

I remembered the first time Mayla looked at me like that.

It was almost dark, but not quite, that in-between time where the sky bleeds orange seeming to last longer than usual. I’d left my jacket in a friend’s room, so I was standing outside the campus cafe in just my short-sleeve button-down, goosebumps raised on my arms, wishing for the first time in a long time that I had long hair if only to fight the cold off.

“It’s colder than my dad’s heart out here,” I said, breathing warm air into my hands.

“I’d imagine you would be cold,” Nat said, “standing there naked like that.”

I gave her a look and asked, “What are you talking about?”

“For real,” Helena said, “I'd be freezing too if that girl was undressing me with her eyes like she’s doing to you.”

They grinned at me and Nat jutted her chin. I turned as subtly as possible to look at whoever she was indicating and there she was. Tiny, with bright purple hair lit up from under her, as she stood directly over one of the cafe porch lights. And eyes like daggers, doing more than undressing me. I felt her with that stare, and my intake of breath was more like a gasp.

The kettle whistled. I took it off and poured two cups full.

“Not really,” I said.

“Well have you done anything?”

I turned around and to show her my confusion at that question. “No,” I said, “Why would I?”

“Um, maybe because she’s like… the hottest girl at this school?”

“I’m not into straight girls,” I said, “I mean, come on. Remember that girl Nat met last summer?”

“No one said you had to marry her,” Helena said, accepting the tea I handed her.

I rose an eyebrow at her.

“I’m just saying,” she said, raising her eyebrows right back at me, “She’s kind of a goddess. And she’s tall. You know what they say about tall girls.”

“Huge penises?” I asked.

“Long fingers,” she said.

I shook my head and stared at her in awe. “Helena Drew,” I said, “People think you are a sweet girl.”

“I don’t think anyone thinks that.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“I mean…”

“Truly. You are.”

“Yea. Thanks, man.”

I thought about that painting in the trash. She was boring, sure.

But I hadn’t broken a heart in a while.

“You really think I should go for it?” I asked.

Helena grinned down at her phone, “You and Mayla are on a break, aren’t you?”

“Yea,” I said, “we are.”

*

I met Léa in Freshman Seminar. It was the first day, the first class, my first college class of any kind, and she showed up late. If I’d been late, I would’ve burst in the door panting and apologizing, and immediately dashed toward the back of the room where the floor could swallow me up.

But Léa walked in calm and quiet and sat down right beside the teacher, right next to me. She paid perfect attention but took no notes and didn’t talk once, and when class was over, she was the first one out the door.

You just have to wonder about people like that. Where are they going? Where are they coming from?

Might they someday ask you to come along?

“What are you doing?” Léa asked.

“Ignoring you,” I said, clicking down on the little lever to make the picture change in my view master.

“Are you decent?” she asked.

“Am I ever?” I asked.

“I’m coming in,” she said.

She came in.

“Dude!” she said, grabbing the view master out of my hands and holding it up to her eyes. I grinned. She looked like Wall-E.

“Where’d you find this?”

“My parents sent it in a care package,” I said, “Apparently they found it at a garage sale.”

“Your parents are so cool.”

“Cooler than me at least.”

“Do you think they have adult versions of these things?”

“What? What would be different about it?”

She lowered the view master to wink at me, “You know,” she said, “adult pictures.”

I looked back up at the ceiling, “I doubt that those exist.”

“You’re no fun.” She handed the view master back to me. I held it up to my eyes and clicked. “Did your parents send food?”

“They sent these,” I said, reaching into the package to pull out a pack of candy button strips.

“No,” she said, “I love those.”

“Really?” I said, “I never thought they were particularly good.”

“Well, no, they’re not,” she said, “but they’re fun.”

“Reminds me of someone,” I said.

“You’re sweet,” she said.

“It’s all the candy buttons,” I said.

She dropped down on the bed beside me, but I continued to ignore her, clicking away.

“Hand me another one of those thingies,” I said after a minute. I moved the view master to make sure she was obeying, and found her eating all the candy buttons.

“Which thingies?” she asked.

“The reel thingies,” I said, “the picture thingies for my picture-viewing thingy.”

“You’re cute,” she said.

“Not as cute as you,” I said.

“I’d kiss you right now if you were gay.”

She said that like she walked into class that day.

I blanched and felt my chest heating and my pulse throbbing in my thumbs and I said, “Who wouldn’t?”

She grinned and handed me another picture thingy. I switched it out, put the view master over my eyes and the tops of my cheeks, and I clicked.

*

“Janey!”

I sighed and turned toward Mayla’s voice. She beamed at me from where she sat at one of the counters facing the cafeteria exit. Léa sat across from her.

I walked over toward them and set my plate down beside Mayla’s.

“Hey, baby,” I said, kissing her head before sliding into the chair beside her.

She smiled at me. I glanced at Léa. She smiled at me too.

I straightened.

“Hey,” I said, “you’re a friend of that girl Rosemary, right?”

She straightened.

“Best friend, more like,” she smiled.

I nodded, slowly, thoughtfully, and then turned toward Mayla.

“How was your presentation?”

“Bette,” she said, “I am terrible.”

I laughed, “I’m sure you were great.”

“Léa and I were talking about going out this weekend,” she said, “to the cinéma. You should come.”

“Will Rosemary be there?” I asked.

Mayla rose an eyebrow.

“Sure,” Léa said.

“I was thinking of asking her to pose for me again,” I said, “I didn’t quite get it the first time. I think I might be able to do better.”

“She’d love that,” Léa said.

“Didn’t Janey paint you?” Mayla asked.

Léa blushed and nodded. I looked down at my plate and stuck a carrot in my mouth.

“Me too,” Mayla said, “she made my hair blue. I look like Emma.”

“Emma?”

“La Vie d’Adéle.”

“Aah,” Léa said, scrunching up her nose in a way that was suddenly familiar and sort of painful and made my carrot taste like her mouth, “I hate that movie.”

“I didn’t make your hair blue,” I said.

“Mes oui! You did.”

“It was indigo.”

“‘Indigo’,” she imitated, her accent making even me laugh at myself, “Blue. You make me blue.”

*

“Jane wants to go to the movies with you.”

“I was going to tell her!” Léa said, “Why do I ever tell you anything!”

“I am sleeping,” I said.

“Jane wants to go to the movies with you,” Annie said again.

“Does she need my ID to get into a rated-R movie?” I muttered into my pillow.

“No,” Annie said.

I turned over, sighing, and glanced at her before closing my eyes again. “What are you talking about?”

“Mayla told Jane we were going to the movies this weekend, and asked if she wanted to come, and Jane asked if you were coming,” Léa said.

My eyes opened. I narrowed them at her.

“You should go,” Annie said.

“Yea,” Léa said, “don’t fight this feeling.” She beamed, “Girl crushes should always be surrendered to.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in girl crushes,” I said.

“You should ask Arthur to come,” Léa said.

I pushed back the covers, “Sure," I said, “Sounds like fun.”

“Holy crap,” Annie said, “is that a view master?”

“Have you made coffee?” I asked Léa.

She made a sheepish face.

I rolled my eyes, "I'll do it."

I stared at the poster, smack in the middle of the cork board, and chewed on my nail.

“Thinking of joining the anime club?”

I turned to see the girl my roommate had introduced to me in the cafeteria earlier that day. She wasn't the type to be forgotten– her skin was brown enough to be called black but hair was orange enough to be called ginger. Her name was Annie.

I smiled, “Oh, no,” I said, “I don’t need to join. I’m the president."

She grinned.

“Are you on your way to lunch?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Cool,” she said, “Mind if I tag along?”

I shook my head and smiled at her, and allowed myself a single short glance back at the GSA poster as we walked away.

*

“Please,” Madison said, “Just once. Come just this once and I’ll never mention it again.”

“Going to GSA is like signing up for Grindr,” Connor said. He glanced over his shoulder at her, “I’m not that desperate.”

“I’m with Connor on this one,” I said.

“GSA is meant for activists,” Madison said.

“Lonely activists,” Helena said.

“I am actively not interested in going to GSA,” I said.

“Come on, you guys,” Madison whined, “don’t make me go alone again.”

“Then don’t go,” Connor said, “No one’s forcing you.”

There was always an awkward bitterness when Madison was in the room. We had an unspoken dislike of her that she somehow never picked up on. She left eventually and I idly sketched Connor as he prattled on about some gay British television show. I only sketched men. I couldn’t paint them. I tired and tried but they were never anything but dull and pleasant, those attempts. But Connor loved to be drawn, and I’m not one to surrender to inability, so there I was.

He glanced at my sketchpad as he crossed the room to make himself tea, and he laughed at what he saw.

“What?” I asked, somewhat offended.

“You always make me look straight,” he said.

“What?” Helena asked, “Let me see!”

“What do you mean?” I asked as Helena tried to grab the pad from me, “What does that mean?”

Helena succeeded. “Oh,” she said, hanging the pad back to me, “Yea. I see it.”

“See what?” I asked, “What are you talking about?”

“I fell asleep in class today,” Connor informed Helena as he slid down between her legs on the bean bag.

“Oh, darling,” she said, “What time did you go to bed last night?”

“3:30?”

“Oh, baby.”

“I know. I’m the worst.”

“What are you guys talking about?” I asked again, staring at my sketch in bafflement.

“Jane,” Connor said, “Come on. That guy’s not me.”

“Why?” I asked, “What about this is intrinsically straight?”

“It’s just,” Connor said, “I don’t know. That guy loves girls.”

Helena laughed, “Everyone Jane draws loves girls.”

*

“I thought we were going to the movies,” I said.

“We will be watching a movie,” Léa said, “just not in a theater.”

“Ok,” I said, “so can we go home and watch it in our living room instead?”

“No,” Annie said.

“No,” Léa agreed.

Arthur just laughed.

Mayla’s dorm building looked like Thornfield Hall in the near-dark. The icicles that were starting to melt on the sunnier side of campus still looked like foreboding swords stolen from great family crests on the side of this building, and the shadows they cast on the vine-covered walls were almost laughably picturesque. I was somewhat surprised when the door was opened for us and it was Helena Finn standing there, rather than Edward Rochester.

Helena let us in without greeting and we followed her up the stairs in atmospherically-induced silence. The silence died out when we emerged onto the third floor landing. Helena pushed up against Mayla’s door and Arthur held it open for the rest of us to enter.

There were several people there already– that gay guy Connor who was always hitting on professors, a couple of people I recognized but didn’t know by name, Mayla, of course, sprawled out across her bed like she was posing for a portrait even as her guests sat on the floor, and in a low, peculiar chair off to one corner, Jane.

Arthur sat down beside Connor and smiled up at me, patting his lap. I sat down carefully on his crossed legs and glanced around the room.

I sat down carefully on his crossed legs and glanced around the room.

Jane met my eye.

I’d noticed her around, or perhaps noticed isn’t quite right– I’d seen her around. But I didn’t know her name.

It was the end of the first day of Philosophy 101. I was packing my bag. She was talking to the professor, trying to get off the waiting list and onto the roster.

“Name?” he asked.

“Jane,” she said.

“Jane what?”

“Jane Doe.”

He side-eyed her, unamused. She just smirked.

“Stewart,” she said, “Jane Stewart.”

The classroom door closed behind me. I glanced back at Jane Stewart before starting off down the hall.

*

Rosemary had been there almost an hour and hadn’t looked at me once after that first, brief glance.

I wasn’t planning on paying her any more attention than would bother Mayla and hopefully bother Léa even more. But now she was ignoring me and she was ignoring everyone and even the boy she was sitting on, who I’d think she’d go out of her way to at least pretend to be amused with, she ignored. She was alone in the room. It was curious.

So I’m sitting there just sort of watching her out of the corner of my eye and then someone shut off the movie and moved to put on music.

Now I have one move. Otherwise, I don’t like to be repetitive, I always say that would be disrespectful to my lovers.

But this one is too effective not to recycle. I’m not that huge of an Arctic Monkeys fan, myself. I don’t mind them, but I wouldn’t say I necessarily consider what they do art. What I do with them, though– that’s an art.

It’s the song Knee Socks. They’ll be talking, or not talking; unsure, nervous, maybe not fully convinced I’m what they want.

But the moment those first notes hit the air, like a storm, like the first ripple of thunder guaranteeing the follow-up of lightning… they’re mine.

“Hold up,” I said as some girl went to put on Alt-J– yea, real party music. She moved aside so I could type the title into youtube. I turned to her, “Are speakers plugged in?” She nodded.

I clicked the link, and as it started, I turned around.

Rosemary’s head shot up, and she looked right at me, like the song had led her to me. And I remembered that she was best friends with Léa, and I realized she knew. So I turned around again, stared at the computer screen for a moment, and then turned and left the room. 

*

I kissed a girl in high school. It wasn’t my first kiss, but it was my first same-sex anything.

She was my best friend. I did it even though I was afraid it might ruin everything. And it did, in truth. Everything between us, at least.

But it didn’t ruin me.

She was sitting sort of in front of me, sort of in my lap. This is normal, I reassured myself, we used to do this before. This is normal.

Her hair used to be longer. Just then it was very, very short, so her neck was bare to me.

That wouldn’t have mattered before. I wouldn’t have even noticed.

Now I couldn’t stop thinking about kissing it.

This is not normal.

She shifted. A little farther away, now, a little out of my grasp. I missed her instantly. I missed the slight touch.

I could do it.

I slammed myself back against the couch. No. Not what needed to be in my brain right now. The farthest thing from what I should be thinking with my best friend sitting in front of me.

I could lean forward and kiss her neck.

I bet she’d like it.

I almost gasped out loud. She glanced back at me, so I must’ve made some noise. 

“You Ok, dude?”

“Huh? Yea. Can we watch something else?”

“Yea, you’re right, this is dumb.”

She wouldn’t. I’m not her type. I know her type, and it’s not me.

Also she said that once, word for word, to your face.

Ok, yea, but she didn’t know. I didn’t even know. 

I could still do it. Maybe she’d forget I’m not her type with my lips on her neck.

I was about to protest with myself when she shifted back again, pressing into my thighs, close to my chest, and her neck so close to my face, my mouth, and then it was like I didn’t even make a decision, it just happened. It was like I fell.

I pressed my lips to her neck and softly, barely, so if it’d happened in a room full of people, with legs bumping and shoulders knocking and all sorts of contact happening, she probably wouldn’t have noticed it, kissed her skin.

I wish we’d been in that busy room, so the moment could end, and she wouldn’t know it’d even begun, and I could live the rest of my life with the knowledge of what just a little bit of her skin felt like on my mouth, and I wouldn’t have to explain myself or try for more or anything, I could just have that feeling always on my lips and no one would have to know.

But we were alone. And she noticed. 

She turned around, and her eyes were wide and dark.

That’s a good sign, my pounding heart yelled, her eyes would’ve lit up if she thought I was joking. They would’ve been confused if she was disgusted.

But they were dark, and angry. The kind of angry I know. The kind of angry I felt when I looked at her neck other times and knew I couldn’t kiss it. Why won’t you be mine.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

I didn’t use words to answer her.

I sat there in Arthur’s lap, listening to Knee Socks, which a group of girls had elected to replay so they could continue their extremely loud, extremely off-pitch covers. And all I could think about was the first time Jane hooked up with someone else after her break up with Léa.

There was a knock on my door, and I lifted myself up on my knees to turn the knob without getting off of my bed.

Léa’s eyes were red and puffy. “Oh, Léa,” I said, “What’s wrong?”

“She did it to her,” she said.

“She– you mean Jane? Did what? To who?”

“She played the song,” she said, “she played our song. I knew she would hook up with other people but I– I didn’t know she’d use the same move on them!”

“I– what?” Curiosity got the better of me, though I still wasn’t sure exactly what she was talking about. “What song?” I asked.

“Knee Socks.”

I couldn’t move. “You Ok?” Arthur asked.

“I’m fine,” I said. “I just need to pee.”

I shot up and hurried out of the room. Arthur stared after me in bewilderment.

I glanced up and down the hall once I was out, but Jane was long gone.

That was probably for the best.


End file.
